Дэвид Копперфильд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           Theyservedmewiththeale,thoughIsuspectitwasnottheGenuineStunning;andthelandlord’swife,openingthelittlehalf-doorofthebar,andbendingdown,gavememymoneyback,andgavemeakissthatwashalfadmiringandhalfcompassionate,butallwomanlyandgood,Iamsure.

           IknowIdonotexaggerate,unconsciouslyandunintentionally,thescantinessofmyresourcesorthedifficultiesofmylife.IknowthatifashillingweregivenmebyMr.Quinionatanytime,Ispentitinadinneroratea.IknowthatIworked,frommorninguntilnight,withcommonmenandboys,ashabbychild.IknowthatIloungedaboutthestreets,insufficientlyandunsatisfactorilyfed.Iknowthat,butforthemercyofGod,Imighteasilyhavebeen,foranycarethatwastakenofme,alittlerobberoralittlevagabond.

           YetIheldsomestationatMurdstoneandGrinby’stoo.BesidesthatMr.Quiniondidwhatacarelessmansooccupied,anddealingwithathingsoanomalous,could,totreatmeasoneuponadifferentfootingfromtherest,Ineversaid,tomanorboy,howitwasthatIcametobethere,orgavetheleastindicationofbeingsorrythatIwasthere.ThatIsufferedinsecret,andthatIsufferedexquisitely,nooneeverknewbutI.HowmuchIsuffered,itis,asIhavesaidalready,utterlybeyondmypowertotell.ButIkeptmyowncounsel,andIdidmywork.Iknewfromthefirst,that,ifIcouldnotdomyworkaswellasanyoftherest,Icouldnotholdmyselfaboveslightandcontempt.

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